


I Found You

by adobe_beforeffects



Series: Dear Father [2]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Gore (Dead Body), One Shot, there's also a scene involving insects at the beginning which is kind of squicky, this is a sequel but you don't need to read the original to understand this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 05:24:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15308421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adobe_beforeffects/pseuds/adobe_beforeffects
Summary: Dear Father,It's been a long time.





	I Found You

He’s not sure how many days he’s been lying there. He’s not even sure he wants to know.

Michael’s pretty sure he’s seen the light from his window increase and decrease at least four times, maybe five. He’s not positive. Ever since he had given up, time had been slow, murky, a molasses-like monotony broken only by the sound of a fly buzzing around in his room.

This was the new plan he had formulated. He wasn’t supposed to be alive, so he wasn’t going to act alive, either. He would just lie here and quietly rot away in his room, and no one would be the wiser. Unfortunately the idea had proven more difficult than expected, and his inability to sleep despite his sense of exhaustion had created nothing but a sense of boredom and listlessness.

The fly lands on his outstretched hand and he watches it, not moving. It crawls a few feet to a particularly rotten section of his finger, then bends its abdomen and lays a single white egg under his skin.

Michael jerks upright and strikes the spot, hard, leaving a black twitching mass where the fly had stood. He darts to the bathroom, trying not to panic. _It’s just a fly. What did you expect? You’re dead._

He grabs a piece of toilet paper and quickly removes the fly’s remains, then steadies himself. He pinches his flesh, not directly looking at the spot, until the egg slides out between his fingers where it’s quickly smashed. He sets his hands down on the sink for support, feeling ill. There could be more eggs, he thinks to himself. _Maggots crawling around inside of him like the endoskeleton had done, eating what’s left of his skin-_

A bath. He needs to take a bath.

He leans down to start the tap, then realizes that his stomach wound - could it even be called a wound at this point? - would make it impossible. He had debated on sewing it shut shortly after _it_ happened, but closer inspection had revealed that the Scooper had ripped out not only his organs but most of the skin on his torso. The open gaping hole would let in water, which would only make him rot faster.

Michael settles for stripping off his clothes, stained with who knows what kind of bodily fluids, and using a wet washcloth with a bit of soap to wipe down the outside of his skin. It’s an odd feeling -  this rotted purple Thing no longer even feels like his body. It’s as if he had found a corpse outside and was washing it instead of himself.

He moves to cleaning the hole in his torso, involuntarily shivering at the unfamiliar sensation of touch on the inside of his skin. He keeps going until the washcloth comes away black, then brown, then with nothing on it at all.

Digging into the hall closet reveals a large container of antiseptic fluid, the kind you’d expect to see in a hospital. When he had first discovered it, he had wondered why his father would need something like this. He no longer needs to wonder.

He rubs himself down with the sanitizer, then fetches a fresh set of long-sleeved clothes - the less skin he had to see, the better - and wonders if he looks any less awful now that the most rotted areas have been cleaned.

He doesn’t know. All the mirrors are still covered.

* * *

MISSING THREE-YEAR-OLD FOUND SAFE IN TEXAS, the headline reads. Michael skims the article, only halfway interested, before continuing to flip through the pages. He skips past the comics entirely, and only pauses long enough at the sports section to see who won the Superbowl (the Giants, apparently). He slows down when he gets to the articles, reading over the latest news.

_IT BURNS! Fazbear’s Fright burns to the ground_

_A new local attraction based on an ancient pizzeria chain burned down overnight…_

Michael remembers what he had promised his father, and decides on a new purpose right then and there.

_I’m going to come find you._

* * *

Michael pulls the box off the shelf and beings rummaging through its contents. Most of the items were simply scrap - bits of metal, bolts and wires that no longer connected to anything. He studies them, then sets them aside in an ever-increasing pile.

He moves to another shelf, glancing behind him at the doorway. _There’s no one here,_ he reminds himself, but he can’t help but remember the unease he felt when he first took this job. Nothing had really changed since then save for some new caution tape around the front entrance, but there was something empty and dead about the place that somehow made him more anxious than when the animatronics had been there.

He returns his attention to the shelf, selecting a white mask. Probably a prototype of some type, he figures to himself. He sets it on a considerably smaller pile of parts, its contents being more complete, more finalized than the first pile. _And more expensive,_ Michael thinks, and he smiles to himself. A few hours later the parts and service room in Circus Baby’s has been picked clean. Michael walks away with a jumble of half-finished animatronic pieces, being careful to stay as far away from the Scooping room as he can.

As much as Michael had grown to hate his father’s creations, they would certainly fetch a nice price in the papers.

* * *

Michael swears he can smell the smoke still wafting from the ruining building in front of him - if you could even call it a building at this point. _You don’t even have a nose anymore_ , he reminds himself, but he still can’t quite dismiss the scent.

It’s difficult to see the building in the nearly moonless night, but he can just barely make out the silhouette of the attraction, black against the night sky. It’s little more than a skeleton now, the wooden supports that once held up the building once now charred and collapsed completely in some areas. A single sign reading “FAZBEAR’S FRIGHT” is the only indication of what the place used to be.

Michael walks around the perimeter of the area, unwilling to get closer to the unstable rubble. The newspaper wasn’t exaggerating - it looked like the entire place had been stripped down of anything Freddy’s related. Michael stares at the scene for a moment before turning away, something bitter settling into his hollow chest. _He’s not here. At least, not anymore._

He starts to walk away, and nearly misses the large, oddly-shaped footprints trailing off into the woods.

* * *

_Come on down to- He’s winding up for the pitch and- Win a boat and a new pair of pants!- I can hear the Fox laughing from his temple- Matt, how could you!- These are America’s Most Wanted-_

The remote clicks endlessly, without enough pause to really take in what was being shown on the screen.

Every day since _it_ happened, Michael had sat in his favorite chair in the living room, always at the same time, always on the same channel. Being able to still watch his favorite show was one of the only good things that had come of his unexpected immortality, and it had become a ritual of sorts, a coping mechanism that made dealing with his situation just a little bit easier. Now he simply scrolls through the channels, verifying what he already knows.

His copy of the TV Guide had come in. He had reread it three times, just to make sure he wasn’t simply missing it, before coming to terms with the listings in front of him.

The Immortal and the Restless had been cancelled.

* * *

Michael holds the bank statement in his hands silently. He knew this would happen, but something about seeing it on paper was a jarring wake-up call.

_$31.29_

He had really only made it this far because he had a tiny bit of money tucked away into savings - and because he no longer needed to buy groceries or utilize the air conditioner. But he still needed to pay mortgage, and the electricity bill, and the water bill, and thus rest of his finances had gradually drained away, bit by bit.

He double checks the box of parts he took from Circus Baby’s just to make sure. Almost all of his father’s animatronics had been sold off already - at least, the ones he figured were the least likely to kill and/or maim anyone. He reaches his hand into the box and pulls out his personal favorite item, a small plastic figurine of Funtime Freddy. He rubs the buttons on the toy’s torso as he sits against the wall, pondering.

He needed to find a job - that much was certain. However, the idea was much easier in theory than it was in concept. It was already dangerous to go out at night, let alone to a job interview in the middle of the day. Michael idly wonders again for the hundredth time what someone would do if they saw him in the daylight.

He looks down at the figure, and something suddenly clicks. _I don’t have to go outside during the day._ There were plenty of night shift jobs available, and if he found one that he could do alone, no one would ever need to see him.

Michael would be smiling, if he still could. Instead he stands up, brushes himself off, and slips the figurine into his pocket.

* * *

The interview is over the phone. Michael feels like whatever God put him into this situation was slowly starting to warm up to him.

“Hello hello?”

“Hello. My name is Gabriel Keller,” Michael announces. He had been embarrassed of his accent as a child and had taught himself how to hide it, which was proving to be a valuable skill right now. “I’m applying for the management position at the new pizzeria. The ad was in the newspaper,” he ads hastily. There’s something familiar about the voice, but he can’t place where he’s heard it.

“Gabriel?” he asks, and Michael’s heart would’ve stopped if it was still in his chest. _Does he know?_

 _“_ There was an employee that worked at my last location. He was named Gabriel,” he intones, and Michael relaxes, remembering something he read about how it was a good idea to make small talk during an interview.

“So you’ve run a pizzeria before-?” he starts to ask, then freezes.

He knows who’s speaking.

“…Only a small one. It shut down after a few months. I figured that trying again fresh might be worth a shot, but I need someone to manage the place while I’m away,” Henry states.

 _Henry._ Michael didn’t know him too well personally, but his father certainly did. His old business partner, the one who had helped him build Freddy’s. The one whose children he had killed. Michael’s grip tightens on the phone, wondering whether or not he was doing a good enough job at hiding his voice.

The next few questions are generic - was he old enough to work (yes), did he have reliable transportation (yes), was he a legal US Citizen (do corpses count as US Citizens? He went with yes). Then there were a handful of questions that were more job specific.

“Do you have experience working with dangerous machinery?”

The hole in his torso seems to hurt more. “Yes, I am.”

“Are you comfortable with working late hours, a high-stress work environment, and signing a waiver form?”

 _A little late for that,_ he thinks, nearly laughing out loud at the thought. Instead he restrains himself. “Of course.”

“Well, that’s all I have for now. You seem like a responsible young man, Michael. I have one other candidate I’m hoping will apply, but if he doesn’t you’ll be contacted immediately.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replies, the line going dead on the other end. He continues to hold the phone to his ear, something clicking in his mind.

_He called me Michael._

* * *

He pulls one of his father’s many journals off the shelf, and a photo album falls down with it.

Michael’s surprised. He never thought of his father as much of an album person. William wasn’t exactly what he would call a sentimental person, especially when it came to his family.

Opening the album seems to confirm his thoughts at first. It’s mostly pictures of robots, some finished, some not. Most have dates and model numbers written under them, but no other information. He recognizes a few of them - Baby, Funtime Freddy, Ballora. Some aren’t as familiar, such as a yellow-eyed Freddy endoskeleton.

He turns to the next page. This one has shots of people mixed into the robot pictures - there’s one he recognizes of William, back at Fredbear’s, in the Spring Bonnie costume. Henry was with him, and they were both laughing. Michael honestly can’t tell if his father was genuinely happy or not.

Michael moves to the next row of pictures, and it feels like everything stops as he realizes what he’s looking at. _That’s me._

It was his last high school photo before graduation. The figure in the photo is standing in front of a purple background - he remembered that he hated the way it looked, but purple was his father’s favorite, so purple it was. His hair was neatly combed and gelled into place - he remembered spending a good hour styling it that morning-, and he’s wearing a nicer shirt than usual. _This is me._ He runs a hand across the rotted, torn flesh making up his face, suddenly overcome with the feeling of loss and anger. _This used to be me._

He realizes he’s clutching the photo so hard it’s starting to fold. He forces himself to relax his grip and takes a moment to recompose himself the way his father had taught him to. _There’s nothing you can do about it._

He sets the photo on the carpet, face-down. He doesn’t want to look at it anymore.

The rest of the photos are pretty standard - more robots and a few scattered pictures of William at various events and stages of health. But there’s one more that gives him pause.

It’s one of the only family photos in the album. He vaguely remembers getting the photo taken - they had moved back to England for a short period to pick up the new member of the family, another product of a one night stand that William had just been informed about. Michael is still a child in it, but even back then the resemblance to his father was uncanny. William stands behind him, still robust and lively, not the emancipated and scarred man that usually came to mind when he thought of his father. In his other arm he holds a bundle of blankets with a mop of blond hair coming out of it. _Elizabeth._

He feels like he should feel _something_ at the sight of her, some sort of anger at her for what she did to him, but there’s nothing _._ The monster that had killed him no longer bore any resemblance to the baby in the picture. If anything, she was as much as a victim as he is.

He pockets the family photo and burns everything else.

* * *

The shadows created by the flashlight beam create odd shapes, and he jumps at what appears to be a slumped figure only to realize it’s nothing but a pile of trash bags. He rubs the figurine in his chest pocket to calm himself and moves into another alleyway.

He sees the ears first, and as he moves closer he can make out the rest of it. The suit is rotten and discolored, full of holes that expose metal joints and wiring - and a corpse more rotten than he is.

Michael moves closer, shining his light directly in the thing’s face, and for a moment it doesn’t react. Then it jerks spasmodically, the mechanical noises of the thing’s servers almost disappearing under the sounds of crunching bone and ripping flesh. The plastic eyes roll wildly in the thing’s head, coming to stop at Michael’s face.

 _Father,_ Michael utters, and somehow he doesn’t feel fear. Perhaps it was just the sheer adrenaline running through his system.

Or perhaps he just doesn’t fear his father like he used to.

The faint light in the back of his empty eye sockets glows impossibly light as he boldly leans in closer to the rabbit animatronic.

_I found you._


End file.
